


The Language of the Birds

by burnt_oranges



Series: world enough and time [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, HP: EWE, His Dark Materials Inspired, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnt_oranges/pseuds/burnt_oranges
Summary: "I told you it'd take longer than you thought," Harry said, shaking his head, his lion's mane of black hair tied into a messy bun."Hello, wonderful to see you too, I'm glad you didn't die in Ecuador," Draco said patiently because one of these days he would successfully train Harry into offering proper greetings."Hello, git," Harry said fondly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings at end

Draco walked down the street wearing his heaviest Muggle coat--it seemed, invariably, Muggle design positively correlated warmth with hideousness--with Asteria tucked inside.  Asteria had to coil herself several times around his torso because she had been far too large for this form of travel for over a  _decade_ now, as she was a giant fucking python, but she refused to acknowledge it, especially in winter. Her head poked out of his collar, little forked tongue tasting his ear every so often, which was horribly distracting when trying not to fall to one’s death on the ice. 

“It’s far too cold,” Asteria complained, burrowing into the hollow of his neck.

Draco didn’t point out that she could have stayed at home because the year they had been separated when Draco was in Azkaban was still a deep, festering wound between them. “You’re too heavy for this,” Draco said. “I’m over-heating.”

“You’re  _warm_ ,” Asteria said longingly. 

“I’m  _sweating_ ,” Draco snapped.

Asteria tasted his neck. “You smell terrible too,” she informed him.

It was the week before Christmas, and Muggle decorations, all unmoving ribbons and paper and wreaths, gave way to ever-larger, mobile wizarding decorations as Draco neared the entrance to the Ministry of Magic in Whitehall. Draco swore the Christmas tree from two streets back was following him at a leisurely pace. Snow started falling, soft and quiet, and Asteria gave a little threatening hiss to one snowflake before her head disappeared into his shirt, her scales cool against his skin. Early morning sun peeked out from between tall buildings, blushing a delicate pink, before being swallowed by the charcoal gray of the sky. 

Harry was waiting for him, wearing the emerald-coloured velvet cloak that Draco loved best on him, the one Draco had bought him for his last birthday. Draco smugly felt that his plan of secretly replacing all of the horrendous clothes in Harry's closet over time was proceeding apace. This Muggle coat wasn't Draco's fault, he  _had_ to wear Muggle clothes for his research over the winter holiday in Muggle Quito and Boston and had only arrived back half an hour ago.

"I told you it'd take longer than you thought," Harry said, shaking his head, his lion's mane of black hair tied into a messy bun. 

"Hello, wonderful to see you too, I'm glad you didn't die in Ecuador," Draco said patiently because one of these days he would successfully train Harry into offering proper greetings. 

"Hello, git," Harry said fondly. Before Draco could retort, Harry pulled him into a spine-melting kiss, Harry's hand--strong and callused and warm--gentle on his cheek, careful to avoid touching Draco's badly purpling black eye. Harry ran hot, like he had a small sun nestled in his heart, radiating intemperate heat from relentless nuclear fusion reactions.  Draco had just left Quito in summer, which was all humidity and soft rain, steam rising from pavement, Draco's English stiff upper lip wilting, his white undershirt a mess of rain and sweat. But it didn’t compare to the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, his tongue sliding along Draco’s, all of him scorching in comparison to Draco’s cold-blooded system, his fingers frozen from the cold because cashmere fingerless gloves were more form than function.

Draco had become more honest with himself after the war—he had to in order to survive the immediate post-war shock of massive loss and then Azkaban, to claw onto what little goodness he had managed to attain after years of grindingly hard work. So Draco admitted to himself that he leaned into Harry’s hands and mouth like a cat in the sun, and clung to the front of his cloak, inhaling Harry’s scent of smoke and the Moly-infused cologne that Draco had bought him (Harry still didn’t know how much it had actually cost, and Draco was endeavoring to keep it that way; Harry had the strangest hang-ups when it came to money, thinking nothing of spending whatever it cost to own the newest broom but considering new clothes a luxury). After all, Draco had no idea how long this would last before Harry realized there were other people out there he could be with who were—well, who could, at the very least, go to the vegetable market and buy tomatoes without also having to pay for their family’s long, inter-generational list of sins.

Harry pulled back to look Draco directly in the eye, grinning foolishly, his lips slick and red. Asteria tentatively tasted Harry’s cheek and if possible, Harry grinned even wider. Draco felt himself warm from the inside out, an indolent pleasure stealing into his limbs that was becoming more and more familiar, even though he ached to reciprocate touch. Harry’s daemon was frequently absent on long-distance, scouting missions for the Aurors and was currently finishing her last one, despite the fact that Harry had officially resigned this morning. Not that it mattered, because Draco had never touched her anyway, had never--never wanted to take a chance that his touch might be unwelcome.

“How does it feel, Potter?” Draco drawled.

“Er,” Harry said, blinking and turning red.

“My, my, Mr. Potter, I am shocked and appalled at the gutter in which your mind appears to live,” Draco said, eyes wide, hand to chest—well, hand to puffy coat. Asteria tucked herself under Draco's chin and hissed sadly.

Harry used to sputter incoherently, trying to defend himself, but he had become inoculated to Draco through long exposure and now only rolled his eyes.

“Do you remember at the Leaky Cauldron when you spit butterbeer all over Minerva?” Draco said wistfully as they walked toward home. Draco may have purposely timed his insinuation that Ernest Macmillan attempted to have drunken relations with a goat.

“Yes, I remember when Professor McGonagall almost killed me because of you,” Harry said conversationally.

“You’re going to have to start calling her by first name sometime soon,” Draco pointed out. “You’re colleagues now.”

Harry began to look hunted. “She—still has many more years of experience,” Harry said primly.

“No need to be afraid, Harry,” Draco said, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders, Asteria laugh-hissing in his ear. “Minnie is very approachable, _especially_ after four shots of Firewhisky.”

“Minnie,” Harry mouthed.

Draco placed his index finger against his mouth, thoughtful. “Why, I remember the year Peeves constantly followed Minnie with mistletoe, and we ran into each other late at night while—“ was all Draco was able to get out before Harry covered his mouth with his hand.

“It's too early in the morning for this,” Harry said, sounding shaken.

“So afternoon would be a better time then?” Draco suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Harry slanted a glare at him, and Draco couldn't help kissing it away, electric happiness bubbling up because this was still new, even after eight months, that Draco got to—got to be silly. Malfoys were stately and dignified at all times, as was befitting of their station, and Draco had tried so hard to contain himself, even at Hogwarts, away from home, and he succeeded, he did, except—except when it came to Harry Potter, always Potter, where Draco couldn’t stop himself and everything always came out at once, messy and ugly and exhilarating.

As the sun rose, the sky whitened, heavy with snow, and everything felt muted, even though the street was now full of early-morning London commuters. Draco could tell the wizards from the Muggles, as they gave perfunctory frowns at him as they passed. Draco pretended not to notice, Asteria hunkering down near his ear from where she had been eye-level. “It feels liberating,” Harry said finally, as they turned onto Charing Cross Road.

“What,” Draco said stupidly, exhaustion from the time-lag finally hitting him now that the adrenaline rush of seeing Harry after three weeks away was starting to wear off.

Harry smirked at him, swinging their interlaced hands, and Draco nobly refrained from blushing. “Quitting my career as an Auror,” Harry said in the tone of voice that meant he was taking mercy on Draco because he was a very nice person, and he wanted Draco to know that.

“Of course,” Draco said, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

“It was time,” Harry said, looking up at the sky so Draco could only see him in profile, his expression hidden. “It’s a lot of paper-pushing in peacetime,” he said, sounding wistful, before hurriedly saying, “Which is good. War is—“ Harry didn’t finish, which was fine, because Draco knew. He knew what war was.

Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, and Harry looked over at him, the corners of his mouth turned down, and Draco was willing to say anything to change it. But Draco had no idea what magic phrase that might be and instead blurted out, “I need moonstone. Let's stop at Pygmy Puffs and Potions.”

“You hate that place,” Harry said, looking at him strangely, but his mouth had returned to neutral ground. "You always say the owner has the potion brewing ability of a--"

"Yes, all right, thank you," Draco interrupted, Asteria's head disappearing back into the puffy prison of Draco's coat. He only noticed Asteria's coils had been loose and relaxed when they tightened again, a pressurized weight against his chest and back. 

 Yes, Draco thought churlishly as they stepped inside Pygmy Puffs and Potions, there was good reason to think the owner had the potion brewing ability of a particularly stupid flobberworm: combustible ingredients were stored next to each other, love potions were advertised at 50% off, and one entire wall was dedicated to the housing of pygmy puffs, which, on the whole, were completely useless as a species. Cadmus Cattermole, the owner, sat at the counter reading _The Daily_ Prophet, little pygmy puffs jumping all over him while his field mouse daemon attempted to hide in his hair.

While Harry went to inspect a dubious-looking Foe-glass, Draco strode to the counter, shoulders back, chin lifted, the reflexive posture of his childhood. When Draco was close enough to see that Cadmus was actually reading a hidden copy of the latest trashy romance from Catriona Brown, he said, imperious, "Your best moonstone." 

Cadmus glanced up and started almost comically. "I told you, we don't serve Death Eaters," he said, and his daemon squeaked loudly.

Draco turned alternately hot and cold, insides shriveling, Asteria's coils tensing even harder around his torso and making it hard to breathe. "You said that seven years ago," Draco said through gritted teeth. 

"We haven't changed our policy," Cadmus said, hand sliding under the counter, presumably for his wand; his daemon flattened even further into Cadmus' limp blonde curls. 

"Seven years seems long enough," Harry remarked suddenly from behind Draco.

Draco sucked in a breath through Asteria's death grip and felt crushed with humiliation that not only was he banned from such a dodgy little shop for a devastating mistake he made nine years ago but that Harry was witnessing it. Cadmus didn't seem to have noticed Harry joining them either, his eyes bulging as he took in the lightning scar and bottle-green eyes and then, finally, the empty space where a daemon should be. Harry's face closed-off in the way Draco hated, where Harry became impenetrable like a fortress for days, sometimes even weeks.  

When they were in school,  _The Daily Prophet_ rudely speculated for years that Harry's daemon must be an insect or a particularly shy rodent--but the truth was, at that point, that Harry had no daemon for the majority of his life. After the Dark Lord attempted to kill Harry when he was one year old, Harry's daemon disappeared. This lack of daemon, Harry had once confessed in the liminal space between consciousness and sleep, was one of the reasons he spent so long disbelieving that he was actually a wizard. Muggles didn't have daemons, which Draco still found vaguely unsettling, even after knowing Harry so long. Texts were dedicated to answering the question of the actual location of a Muggle's soul, and Draco knew of at least four different Dark Arts objects, long since confiscated from the Manor, that were predicated on the idea that Muggles had no soul.

But when Harry died for them all in The Battle of Hogwarts and then, miraculously, returned--his daemon returned with him. 

"Oh, ah--Mr. Potter," Cadmus said, fumbling to his feet, his daemon running circles on his unusually wide head. "What an honor--what a pleasure--I just can't--" 

"Might we have some moonstone?" Harry said, his smile not reaching his eyes. 

Cadmus' gaze darted from Harry to Draco and back again, as if he couldn't believe Harry would ever actually stand in the same space as a Malfoy, which, if Draco were honest with himself, he couldn't quite believe either. "Aurelio," Cadmus finally shouted without looking away. "Mr. Harry Potter would like some moonstone." Draco heard a loud crash from the back and then Aurelio came running with an enormous canister of moonstone, a type of anxious efficiency that Draco had seen Harry inspire in too many sales people to count. 

"Your moonstone, Mr. Potter," Aurelio said, voice trembling, and swept a low bow. His butterfly daemon fluttered confusedly by his shoulder.

"Er, thank you," Harry said, taking the canister. 

"I only need 60 g," Draco said, but Harry was already handing over far too many galleons for the probable shoddy quality of the moonstone. 

Aurelio tore his eyes from Harry to Draco and did a visible double-take, first at Draco himself and his covered arm, and then at the black eye that Draco had received a few hours ago from a particularly vicious Venomous Tentacula. Draco would have healed it himself, but he had been in a hurry to return to England, and Harry--outside of work, Harry never seemed to bother even healing his own minor injuries with magic. Now Harry's face was like stone, all the warmth drained out, and today was supposed to be a celebration of Harry officially becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, but Draco had stupidly pulled them into this shop and--

"He beats me," Draco said earnestly. 

Aurelio and Cadmus gaped at them.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry hissed, his face red, before turning to Cadmus and saying, "I'm sorry, he's an  _arse_ \--"

Asteria chose that moment to raise her head and hiss like she had spotted prey, causing Cadmus and Aurelio both to rear back in surprise. When Cadmus inched his hand toward his wand again, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers before apparently deciding, for once in his godforsaken Gryffindor life, that discretion was the better part of valor. "Thank you," Harry said firmly before dragging Draco outside and shoving the moonstone into his arms. 

Draco looked inside the canister to find moonstone so dull, it looked like sand. Asteria stuck her face into it, tasting, and came out looking like a particularly lackluster ghost. "This is practically unusable," Draco said in displeasure, sifting through the granules with his fingers. 

"What in the bloody hell?" Harry demanded. "That's going to be all over the papers tomorrow."

"In all fairness, I think most people will approve," Draco offered. 

Harry stared at him. "That's even  _worse_ ," Harry said, sounding genuinely pained. 

Draco opened his mouth but couldn't think of anything to say that would improve the situation and so instead busied himself with gently wiping Asteria's face with his fingers.

"It's nothing we haven't managed before," Asteria said, and Draco blinked down at her in surprise--it was rare, although not unheard-of, for her to speak in front of Harry. While Draco was used to Harry's veil of mystery and general bizarreness, having first met Harry when he didn't have a daemon, it still sometimes made Draco feel strange and over-exposed that Harry had an inside-look into Draco's soul, and Draco hardly ever even saw Harry's.

Harry's face softened immediately. "You've paid your dues," Harry told her, his tone resolute. "It needs to stop. Or--we'll never move forward as a society."

"We hurt many people," Asteria said quietly. "Through both action and inaction. Some might say our dues will never be paid."

Harry's gaze snapped to Draco, sharp and probing. "Is that what you really think?" Harry said in a low voice.

Draco fought the urge to shrink into himself. "She's right," Draco said, trying to look as dignified as he could while holding a litre of defective moonstone.

"That's not what I asked," Harry said, and Draco glimpsed Auror Potter for a moment, all hard mouth and fearsome eyes. Draco had once met Harry outside of a crime scene because Harry unofficially needed his potions expertise, just in time to see Harry rip into a junior recruit for spoiling the magical traces of the serial murderer they had been tracking for months; the junior recruit had looked like he might piss himself from fear.

"It's all you're getting," Draco said irritably because he had seen things far more terrible than Harry Potter at his worst. 

Harry looked at him for a long moment before sighing. "You're not off the hook," Harry informed him. 

Draco took shameless advantage of Harry's snitch-catching reflexes, augmented by Auror training, and thrust the canister of moonstone into Harry's chest, whose arms automatically reached up to take it. "I'll make it up to you," Draco said, giving a slow smirk. "Thoroughly."

"If you don't pass out first from time-lag," Harry said dryly.

Draco pouted. "Lies and slander."

Harry laughed. "I know you, git," Harry said like someone else might use a pet name, and really, they would have to work on that.

As they continued on their way, snowflakes collecting in Harry's hair and the hood of his cloak, his daemon in unknown parts, Draco thought: but did he know Harry? And then Harry said, "Oh yeah, let me heal that for you," before soundlessly--and wandless, the show-off--mending Draco's eye, and tucking his hand into Draco's again, making sure to especially cover Draco's cold, bare fingertips. Asteria's coils loosened in contentment, and she curled around Draco's neck like a citrine necklace.

Draco let Harry lead him home.

**Author's Note:**

> warning: tasteless joke made by draco about harry beating him; some language; some sexual content


End file.
